“The bankers,” Yalena said. Her eyes were wide with terror. “That they make into the vampires.”

Chapter Forty-eight

7:30 P.M. EST, Saturday, April 17

Shrine of St. Clare

154 Sullivan Street

New York, New York

Oh, my God,” Meena said after Sister Gertrude had taken Yalena-sobbing too incoherently to get any more sense out of her-off to bed.

“What?” Abraham Holtzman looked down at her distractedly. “Oh, right. Sister Gertrude. Yes, she’s quite an amazing woman. St. Clare, who was a contemporary of St. Francis of Assisi, founded her own order just for women, the Poor Clares. Oh-and this might be of particular interest to you, Miss Harper-St. Clare is also the patron saint of television, due to the fact that she-”

“Please,” Meena said, trying not to sound impolite. “I didn’t mean Sister Gertrude. I meant…”

Before Meena had a chance to go on, heavy footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the kitchen. Then the swinging door burst open to reveal Alaric Wulf, a swathe of his blond hair falling over one eye.

“Is…is he dead?” Meena asked hesitantly. She was torn between hoping they’d killed Stefan, who’d done such terrible things to Yalena, and being horrified at herself for wishing anyone dead, even a vampire.

“Just taking a break,” Alaric said. He stalked straight to the rectory’s industrial-sized fridge. “I’m thirsty.”

Meena stared at him as he reached for the milk, then straightened and began chugging the contents directly from the bottle, without bothering to pour it into a glass first.

Well, she supposed killing vampires was his job, after all. It wasn’t any wonder he treated it somewhat…cavalierly.

And now that his boss had explained about his childhood, Meena thought she understood Alaric Wulf’s lack of interpersonal skills and manners as well.

“What did he say?” Abraham Holtzman asked his fellow guardsman eagerly. “Did he talk, Wulf?”

Alaric’s small mouth twisted with bitter humor. “That’s a good one, Holtzman. You’re filled with jocularity tonight, I see.”

“Listen,” Meena said, glancing back and forth between the two men. “I, uh, really appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Honestly, I do. But if it’s all the same to you, I’m tired after a really exhausting day, and I’d really like to go now. Plus”-her eyes flashed with defiance, even though Alaric was only regarding her mildly over the milk bottle, not challenging her in any way-“and I know what you’re going to say to this, so I don’t even know why I’m bothering, but here goes: I really think if I could just talk to Lucien, on the phone, we could clear a lot of this up. Just let me call him. Some of the stuff Yalena said…I don’t think he knows about it. And…well…” She added the last part in a rush: “Jack Bauer needs to be walked.”

Still holding the milk in one hand, Alaric’s glance shifted toward the windows and the growing darkness beyond them. Meena could think of only one way to describe his expression as she mentioned her dog:

He looked as if someone had kicked him in the gut.

To her surprise, he didn’t mention anything about what she’d said concerning Lucien. He only murmured, as if speaking to himself, his gaze shifting away from the darkening windows, “The dog. I forgot about the dog.”

“What?” Meena looked from Alaric to the windows to Abraham Holtzman, who’d also gone pale. She didn’t need to be psychic to know that the tension in the room had gone up about ten notches.

“What do you mean, you forgot about the dog?” she asked. “Why do you have that look on your face?”

Before either man could respond, the swinging door to the kitchen burst open again, and her brother came in. He, however, didn’t possess anything like Alaric Wulf’s swagger. He was shuffling like an old man, his shoulders slumped, his expression dazed. He seemed to look straight through Meena. In fact, she wasn’t sure he was even aware of her presence until he mumbled, when he came alongside her, “Meen…you should have been there. It…it was unreal.”

That’s when she realized he meant what had been going on in the rectory basement…from which she hadn’t heard any screaming in a while, which was why she’d asked if Stefan was dead.

“I don’t want to hear about it,” she said firmly. She didn’t approve of torture-not even of a vampire who’d mercilessly beaten a young girl, then forced her to call Meena to set up a fake meeting so he could attempt to kidnap her.

Killing that vampire outright? That, Meena wasn’t sure she had a problem with…especially since the entire cab ride down to St. Clare’s, Stefan Dominic had done nothing but hiss invective at her from beneath Alaric’s leather trench, calling her the devil’s whore and any number of other equally vile names, even though Alaric Wulf had threatened to lift the coat and let him fry to death in the sunlight streaming through the cab’s windows.

But then…there was always a chance that, with rehabilitation-and maybe even Shoshona’s love-Stefan Dominic might be able to change his evil ways. Why not?

Lucien had.

And he was the prince of darkness, supposedly the most evil of all the demons against whom the Palatine Guard was sworn to do battle.

So if they killed him, they’d be killing any chance at helping Stefan Dominic to become a better, kinder vampire…like Lucien.

“Are you going to kill him?” she asked nervously.

“I wish I could,” Alaric said, looking wistful.

“Of course not, Miss Harper.” Abraham Holtzman pulled a manual from the pocket of his corduroy jacket and began to thumb through it. “According to the Palatine Guard Human Resources Handbook,” he said when he came to the page he wanted, “it is unethical to kill any demonic entity while he is our prisoner and helpless under our power. He will, of course, be tried by a Palatine officer for his crimes and properly executed if found guilty.”

Meena looked over at Alaric. “Then I don’t get exactly what you people do all day. I thought you hunted down demons and killed them. You never mentioned anything about a trial.”

“Oh, there’s always a trial,” Alaric assured her, pausing with the milk bottle halfway to his lips. “I find demons very trying. That’s why I always kill them whenever I find them.”

Meena glanced at Abraham Holtzman, who explained quickly, “In the heat of battle, if a demon tries to kill one of our hunters, of course it’s permissible for them to defend themselves.”

“Well, did either of you find out what’s going on?” she asked Alaric and Jon impatiently. She didn’t want a lecture from the Palatine Guard Human Resources Handbook. And she could tell from Alaric’s pained expression that he wasn’t enjoying it much, either.

“He didn’t say anything,” Jon said. “And we poured that holy water on his-”

“I said don’t want to know,” Meena said, giving him her outstretched palm. Stop.

Jon didn’t pay any attention, however. “They have these super healing powers, you know? It’s really amazing, Meen. As soon as you do anything to them, they heal right back up, as long as you don’t stake them in the heart or cut off their heads. They barely even feel it. Except for maybe a few seconds. So you don’t need to worry about it. Stefan Dominic’s face will be fine in time for filming. Right, Alaric?”

Alaric shrugged his heavy shoulders, clearly not wanting to be a part of this conversation, and turned his attention back to his milk bottle and a Pious League calendar on the rectory kitchen wall.

Jon continued. “Although you might want to warn Fran and Stan that they’ve hired a real vampire.” He seemed to have recovered enough from whatever had gone on downstairs to give a sarcastic laugh. “Taylor might have a problem getting all up-close-and-personal with a walking corpse. But what do I know? I’m just an unemployed systems analyst-”